


Broker Your Sins

by toomuchagain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Croatverse, Endverse, Endverse Castiel in the Past, M/M, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Slow Build, Unresolved Sexual Tension, character attempt to die/write himself out of existence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2014-04-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:50:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchagain/pseuds/toomuchagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel finds himself miraculously alive after the suicide run 2014!Dean sends them on. He tries to do stupid things, ends up back in 2009, and Team Free Will +1 set about changing the future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I Die Before I Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel finds himself miraculously alive after the suicide run 2014!Dean sends them on. He also finds himself not alone, and facing a limited number of really sucky options.

Agony. Agony like a firebrand shoved into his brain stem, sulfuric acid poured drip by drip onto exposed nervous tissue, belly sawed open and dissected with a dull stone blade. Agony dragged him twitching and whimpering back into the world of the living, welcomed him with sandpaper arms.

Had Cas known that he’d wake up again—to this—he might have left with the other angels after all. Moreover, he would have taken enough valium to put down a whale before he threw his life away for Dean’s blaze of glory.

There was a hole in his belly, ragged and none too shallow, where a demon stabbed him, twisted the knife, and dropped him to the floor to die, slow and miserable. By some stroke of uncharacteristic good fortune, the croats swarming through the building left him alone, skirting his still breathing corpse. They were mangling the bodies of his fellow decoys when he finally, mercifully, blacked out.

But the mercy didn’t last long, and now he was aware again, on the wrong side of the veil—the world quieter and darker even than Camp Chitaqua.

Cas didn’t dare move from where he’d collapsed, but lay there watching the dark spread of his own blood congealing around him. Beyond was the dusty floor, and the gore-splattered skeleton of a metal bed.

A single, tiny window let in just enough light to show that the outside world was storm-darkened, sky roiling and air somehow thicker, harder to see through. It cast a greenish-grey topcoat over reality. Cas was reminded of the outer layers of Hell, where he’d first picked up traces of Dean Winchester, chains hanging loose and smeared with his soul’s approximation of flesh.

Once upon a time, those tiny remnants had helped lead him to the Righteous Man like a beacon.

Some silly part of him briefly entertained the fancy that they were playing out parallels, and it was Dean’s turn to save Castiel from Hell. He shoved the thought down as quickly as it dared surface.

Cas was human; if he was right, he’d go to Hell when his last spark guttered out. No one would bother saving him. There was no one with either the will or the way to do so.

Panting in weak, copper-tinged gasps of air, Cas wondered if it would be better to die now and get on with it, or take his time, delaying his soul’s desecration on the rack of some broken, once-righteous man. Honestly, Cas didn’t know if he’d ever get the choice: Be tortured or torture? He didn’t know if the mutant thing that was all he could claim for a human “soul” could be reshaped into a demon.

Of course, he probably wouldn’t be there long enough to find out, once Lucifer finished off humanity and started on the demons.

Something shifted in the room, interrupting his musings. Cas jerked, head snapping to track the origin. The movement shot through his nerves, giving new strength to each flare of pain. All he got before he reflexively curled back into himself was an impression of white.

“Castiel.”

Cas cringed. Just a simple word, his name. But the voice that spoke it, and the tender way it caressed each wavelength of sound, wrapping around and through as if to recompose Cas himself…

His eyes snapped open, completely against his will. Lucifer looked down on him, Sam’s face soft and affectionate. 

Cas’s stomach spun with pain of a different sort. “Dean—” he began, already knowing what Lucifer standing there meant, but unable to stop his mouth forming the query.

“Is very much dead,” Lucifer finished for him. “Ours, at any rate. The other one’s gone back to his own time.”

A sob stuck in Cas’s throat, his eyes squeezing against the boiling press of tears, stored up for years. The Devil wouldn’t get the pleasure of being the first to make them fall.

Cas had known. He knew when Dean told them he had the Colt that it was the end, but he’d held out some vain, clawing hope that somehow sacrificing himself would grant Dean the chance to outlive Lucifer. Some sort of cosmic fair trade.

What he wouldn’t give now to keep Dean from ever getting hold of that damn gun.

“The others are dead, too. You’re the only one left, Castiel,” Lucifer added conversationally. There was that name again, the Devil’s voice flowing over it like a lover’s touch. It wound over his skin, leaving a sensation of shining, ephemeral glory mixed with abject filth in its wake. Cas shuddered.

“I’m alive.” His voice felt like stones in his throat, pummeling and cutting and heavy. Dean was dead, and he was still alive. Not only had Dean failed to kill the Devil, but he was dead while Cas lived. His fingers spasmed over the hole in his gut that should have been fatal. How? How was he still alive? No man could’ve survived a wound like this, nor the blood loss. He should have died by now. He  _must_  have died by now.

But he hadn’t.

Lucifer laughed, a rich, warm tumble of noise, so like and yet entirely unlike Sam. “It seems that, despite yourself, you’re still an angel, in the end.”

Cas stopped breathing. No. No, there was no way. He  _Fell_. He went  _human_. It wasn’t possible—he couldn’t be an angel anymore.

“I’m afraid it’s true. I can still feel you inside that revolting sack of meat, brother. It’s—well, not pouring out of you, but wafting, certainly.”

“You’re lying,” Cas said between gritted teeth. He had to be lying. He  _had_  to be.

Lucifer contorted Sam’s features into a sympathetic mask, crouching down before him.

“Why would I lie about this? You are, though very young, my brother. I would never cause you undue suffering.”

“Then finish me off already.”

“Ah, no. No, I think not,” he told Cas regretfully. “We are the only two left here. Despite what you might imagine, I’m not so eager to be alone.”

“Fuck you. If you’re not going to do it, leave me to die in peace,” Cas spat. He closed his eyes, turning his face to press against the floor and trying hard not to notice the squelch as he pressed his cheek into the congealed blood.

Lucifer chuckled softly. “Oh no, no. You misunderstood. You’re not going to die. Sure, with so little Grace left, it'll take you a long time to fully heal, but like I said, you are still an angel.” 

The first icy tendrils of dread began to snake through Cas’s veins as his thoughts scattered, trying to reject the growing certainty that Lucifer was right. Slowly, he looked up to meet Sam’s familiar hazel eyes.

When he remained silent, clearly struggling away from understanding, Lucifer grimaced, reaching out a gentle hand to cup his cheek and run a soothing thumb under his eye. “You’re an angel. And the only thing that can kill an angel…”

Cas jerked as if he’d been struck. “No. _No!_ You’re lying! You’re lying, you son of a bitch! You’re lying!” Body heaving with panic, Cas tried to scrabble away from Lucifer’s kind gaze, adrenaline temporarily lending him strength and cushioning the pain. He only stopped once his back hit the wall, and he could go no further. A long line of scarlet stretched out like a tether between them, and Cas couldn’t help but feel like it was that rather than the physical barrier of stone and wood and plaster at his back that stopped him from escaping this scene.

“You’re lying,” he gasped, eyes hot once more, but still dry, “You have to be.”

Lucifer moved toward him, stepping carelessly through the mess of blood, white shoes staining, following the line holding them together until Cas flinched. He stopped, and for a long moment, seemed to debate his next move. After what felt like a lifetime, he nodded to himself, once.

“I’m sorry. I’m not lying. You won’t die without me, and I won’t let you die. I’m not doing this out of spite or cruelty, Castiel, I want to help you. We are alike, you and I. Daddy forgot us, left us behind. Our brothers, too, abandoned us, when we wouldn’t play by their rules. They cast us out for what we believed in, what we loved.”

Cas wanted to protest, wanted to scream that they were nothing alike. But a voice in the back of his head hissed that it was a lie; they both Fell for love. If Lucifer Fell for love of their father, and Cas for love of Dean…well, what, really, was the difference?

Cas snorted.  No, there was a difference: What they were left with. When Lucifer Fell, God left him his connection to the divine presence, though caged off and visible only through the bars of his own confinement. Cas got whatever Dean could give him: Loneliness, cynicism, a vast array of addictions to keep the seeping unhappiness at bay. Bleeding out on the floor and unable to pass on to oblivion.

Lucifer took his snort as disagreement and sighed, disappointed. “I’ll tell you what. Once I’m done out there, I will come back for you, and together we’ll reopen the gates of Heaven. You will be restored.  We’ll rewrite this world, better. I’ll even give you back your precious Dean.”

“What?” Cas asked in a low hiss. The promise of Dean was a low blow; Lucifer knew—had concrete evidence—that he’d do practically anything for Dean. Even Cas wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t fight willingly at Lucifer’s side with Dean as his reward for doing so.

“Think on it,” Lucifer said, smiling like he’d already won.

With that, the Devil was gone. Cas was alone once more.

This was hardly the first time he’d been alone. It had been a long time since he wasn’t. Women and men had filled his bed, but their presence did not save him from the empty place where his Grace had once been. They didn’t save him from the loneliness that Dean pulling away once and for all had carved into what remained.

But now he knew—now he knew that that hole where his Grace had been had only held out because it was shaped by the shimmering bubble of what he used to be. Concentrating, Cas could feel it, the almost nonexistent soap shell of Grace that kept him barely here. It had been so long since he’d even tried to reach for it that he hadn’t noticed it was still there.

Lucifer was right. He wouldn’t die, so long as any of it remained intact.

He didn’t have to die. If he waited long enough, he’d heal, and if he accepted Lucifer’s offer, he could return home.

Home, where either of them setting foot would start the war to end all wars. Not only would this world be utterly destroyed, but so, too, would Heaven. For a moment Cas wondered how many souls, angel and human, would be lost forever in the crossfire.

Cas wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t help Lucifer destroy everything their Father had ever created.

But. Dean. If he refused to help bring ruin upon creation, Dean—almost certainly in Heaven now—would be just as vulnerable as every other soul up there at best. At worst, Lucifer would outright seek him out just to punish Cas. There was no way Cas could stop God’s second archangel; he would raze Heaven with or without Cas. If he helped, it would guarantee Dean’s safety.

Dean would never forgive him.

An ugly noise crawled from his throat as he let his head fall back against the wall. He was damned regardless of what he chose, and wasn’t that just the biggest cosmic joke? He had free will to choose, but all the available choices led to ruin.

The thought of losing Dean forever terrified him more than Dean’s enmity. It was selfish, yes, but at the end of the day, that’s how the cards fell. With sickening certainty, he knew his resolve would fail. He would say yes if he waited for Lucifer to ask again.

So that was that. He’d help Lucifer. Decision made.

Cas thought a sense of peace would settle over him now that he’d chosen, but instead self-loathing washed over him. Going over and over through his reasoning, telling himself it was the only way to save Dean, Cas willed the feeling away. Shadows lengthened as he fought himself; lengthened and deepened, eventually engulfing the entire room.

Finally, closing his eyes in defeat, Cas gave up the fight. There were no other options. He was choosing the lesser of two evils.

For the thousandth time since he woke up, he wished himself dead.

It wouldn’t guarantee that Dean survived, but it wouldn’t doom him either. He’d have a chance. And Cas would be spared the weight of his hatred for all eternity.

The problem being, of course, that Cas had no angelic sword to fall upon, no angelic strength to rip out the ragged remains of his Grace in the hopes that doing so would render him human enough to die of his injuries.

Cas paused, struck with a thought. He couldn’t rip it out, but what if he could burn it away?

Whatever he did, it would have to be something huge—provided he could scrape it together enough to make the attempt at all—and it had to be something he could do quickly.

Attempting to heal took time, he wouldn’t be able to initiate—much less maintain—the expenditure; he’d pass out and probably be rendered incapable of using the Grace at all if he tried. Flight would end similarly.

Of course, that was just if he tried flying between _places_.

Cas thought of the time he’d transported Dean to and from 1973. It had drained him considerably, even with all the power of Heaven backing him. If he could dredge himself together enough to begin that attempt…he’d be lost trying to span the gap. Unable to power all the way across from one time to another, he would, by default, cease to exist. He would be erased.

The thought was horrifying, yes, but it was the only thing he could think of: Be swept out of existence, or assist the Devil in tearing it down.

Cas took a deep breath, praying as he scrambled to piece himself together that there was enough of him left to do this.

Days later, ready as he’d ever be, he sighed a plea for Dean to forgive him, and jumped.


	2. Praise the One Who Left You Broken-down and Paralyzed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel isn't sure how to deal with the presence of Future!Castiel, and Dean mostly ignores him in favor of the hippy, drug-addict, new-age cult leader version of him.

"I'll just—wait here, then," Castiel said, arm jerking between trying to hold the phone to his ear and pretending Dean hadn't already hung up on him, and just dropping it back into his pocket and accepting Dean's dismissal.

Realistically, he felt that Dean would be safer if Castiel flew to the motel room now. He could watch over his sleeping charge at his most vulnerable rather than standing sentinel at the side of this lonely highway.

But Castiel knew that Dean found it "creepy" when he watched him sleep, as if he hadn't watched him in much more "personal" moments, or pieced his physical body back together from the decomposing mess it had been just prior to resurrection. It irked him, but this was Dean's preference.

So for 3 hours and 57 minutes, Castiel waited. 

He would have waited exactly four hours, but for what happened then.

Castiel's Grace suddenly pulsed, hard, straining not just at the confines of his human vessel, but his true form as well. It jumped, shooting out after something before he could comprehend what was going on. Whatever that something was, it hooked on. Reality tore, time crunching in on itself. Dark matter oozed through the rips and cracks, mini-supernovas of annihilation popping between the collision of particles and antiparticles in the void space.

Then, with a dizzying jolt, creation righted itself. There was a soft, heavy sound, like a body hitting ground, and Castiel realized he was on his knees, propping himself up with one hand firmly in the soil and the other clutching his stomach. A nasty, fuzzy hurt crept through his stomach. Coughing, he watched as bright red splattered over the grass below him.

For a moment he blinked at it, disoriented. His mind felt split, or doubled, like it had just undergone mitosis and now the half that was no longer him was still connected, but blank and dark.

Castiel raised the hand clutching his middle to stare bemusedly at it. He'd half expected it to be covered with blood and sticky bits of flesh, but it was clean. Why he'd expected that, he couldn't say.

Just as he started to ponder it, the empty, detached part of his mind flicked on. The walls between the two halves solidified and his focus snapped back into place, but only in one of them. Panic flared bright and urgent, but it wasn't his; it was coming from the other half.

The panic was accompanied by a rough groan and a choked, "No..." Castiel was on his feet again reflexively, drawing his sword against whatever had spoken. The action took more effort than usual, his Grace not exactly resisting it, but more sluggish to respond than he expected. It was much the same as the way utilizing any of his angelic powers had felt directly after Heaven shut him out. He felt wrong-footed and weak, but thankfully the sword still fell into his palm.

There was no need for it. The crumpled form before him was covered in blood, barely able to do more than writhe and attempt to curl in on itself spasmodically. The head tipped back and dark blue eyes latched onto him, and Castiel realized with a shock that he was looking at himself, complete with vessel and a distant hum of Grace. His doppelganger clearly found him much less interesting than he found it, and his gaze slid away easily, searching for something. Not finding it, he focused on Castiel once more, a miserable urgency lighting his features.

"Dean," he said, gasping and choking on the blood bubbling up from his lungs.

A wave of terror washed through Castiel. Dean. Something was wrong with Dean. Without thought, Castiel flew to Century Hotel, room 113, ignoring the three remaining minutes his human charge had requested.

He had just enough time to meet Zachariah's widening eyes over Dean's shoulder before he swept Dean and his possessions up and away from Zachariah's grasp. Zachariah tried to race after them as they fled, but Castiel was fast, and he'd spent more than a little time since Lucifer's rising learning to evade other angels. With a healthy dose of double-sourced panic fueling his flight, he left the force of wrath and divine retribution that was his brother behind.

Dean stumbled into him when they landed back on the strip of grass beside the highway. The energy it had taken to rescue him left Castiel reeling, himself, but he managed to remain still and firm enough to catch and support Dean.

Back in its immediate presence, the second awareness pressing against his was noticeably stronger and easier to hear, the panic fading with his return. It stayed alert for only a moment, though, registering Dean's safety with a faint prayer of thanks, and then let go, sliding into uneasy unconsciousness.

"Pretty nice timing, Cas," Dean huffed, righting himself and grinning at him. Castiel didn't know what expression he bore, but as soon as Dean took it in, he tensed, spinning around, ready for a fight.

"Dean, he's not—" Castiel started, reaching out as if to stop him. But Dean had already frozen, staring dumbfounded at the sight of the second Castiel twisted in the dirt. Then Dean surprised him, radiating concern as he swiftly crouched at the other Castiel's side and checked for a pulse. Concluding that the body before him was still alive, Dean pulled his hands away from his belly and cursed at the gory sight.

The next few minutes were baffling and fast. Dean started shedding layers, finally pulling off his tshirt to use to staunch the blood.

"Cas! Gonna need you to get us somewhere safe!" he barked, not looking at him. Castiel frowned, the feeling of having missed something vital making him strangely irritated.

Nevertheless, an instant later he had them safely ensconced in a new motel room. He was more prepared this time for the extra shock of effort, but its persistence worried him.

Dean took a moment to glance around at his new surroundings before going for the med kit and returning to cut the filthy shirt and strip it away. A pained groan rewarded him when he pulled his own ruined tshirt away from the wound.

Castiel drew closer, examining it. It looked like he'd been stabbed, maybe with a knife, but as ragged as it was, maybe not. At any rate, it looked like the internal damage had mostly healed.

"Get out of the light, Cas," Dean ordered, concentrating on the torn flesh, "Gotta be able to see what I'm doing."

Stung, Castiel drew back, allowing the meager light of the bedside lamp to better illuminate Dean's work. He watched as Dean cataloged the damage and painstakingly cleaned the immediate area.

Throughout the process, Castiel was generally ignored. The contrast between Dean pouring every ounce of attention into their prone patient, and apparently forgetting Castiel even existed, set a spark of resentment in his recently not-so-angelic chest. He understood that from Dean's point of view, here was an injured ally, and obviously that required the majority of his focus. Yet, he had no way of knowing that this really was an ally, and Dean was usually not nearly so trusting, even in emergencies.

Why should Dean completely dismiss him in favor of someone he didn't know not to be any number of monsters? Why hadn't he even bothered to ask Castiel anything about the creature he was caring for?

Typically, the first thing out of Dean's mouth when confronted with an unknown situation was a demand for information, as if Castiel was his own private encyclopedia. He had not realized until now that he enjoyed Dean's reliance on him, even if it was in such a minor way, but the privation of this function shone a stark light on it, making him feel unnecessary and discontent.

He squirmed with the repugnant sensation, wishing Dean would ask him to do something.

But Dean continued to ignore him, taking out supplies to stitch up the tattered flesh.

"You're needlessly expending your medical supplies. He will heal on his own."

This finally earned him Dean's attention, but not in a positive way. Dean glared up at him with his needle poised to start the first suture.

"No, he won't. Unless you suddenly got your healing mojo back, stay out of it."

Castiel frowned, taken aback. "He already has. I can assure you there was a great deal more internal damage than what you see; it shows signs of recent tissue regrowth."

"Yeah?" Dean asked, "Well, what's keeping the rest of it?" Disregarding any further input from Castiel, he proceeded with his task, tying off neat little knots in a crooked line.

Castiel watched silently, jaw clenched.

\-----------------------------

When at last the second Castiel was stitched, wiped clean, and redressed in some of Dean's clean sweats, Dean finally turned to him.

What came out of his mouth was, like most things today, not what Castiel was expecting.

"Did he say anything to you when he got here?"

Castiel blinked. "You don't care who—or what—he is?" he asked in genuine confusion.

Dean made an impatient, sweeping gesture with his hand. "I already know that. What I don't know is how or why he's here–or, now, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

It stopped Dean where he was beginning to pace. He glanced over at first one Castiel, then the other, before sighing and running his hand down his face. "Right. Guess I should explain."

"Yes," he agreed simply.

The tale of 2014 made Castiel what he supposed humans would call "nauseous." When it was done, he stared at his future self with a mix of horror and fascination. How he could have fallen so far eluded him. But there was one thing Dean was definitely wrong about.

"He's not human," he stated with conviction.

Dean reacted with annoyed incredulity. "Of course he's human. No mojo. He broke his foot and was stuck in bed for two months. He couldn't even do the sword thing. He bathes—rarely, from the smell, but whatever. He eats, he drinks, he—he poops, for christ's sake. Seems pretty human to me."

Castiel studied the prone figure, searching out the familiar Grace that resonated in him. It took him a moment to realize that the majority of what Grace there was actually originated in _him_ , stretched whisper thin between them. Nonetheless, underneath that, there was a tiny spark that was all Future-Castiel's own.

Suddenly the world-shift and connection between them made a good deal more sense, and he wondered why he had not realized all this much earlier. Most likely the disorienting effect of almost-sharing minds had distracted him.

"No," Castiel shook his head. "He's still an angel, just barely. He may even have believed himself human, but he couldn't have believed himself _that_ human, or he would never have made the attempt to travel through time."

Dean looked less certain of himself. "He said— Damn. He said he was _practically_ human." He shook his head ruefully. "Why would he try to get to now, 'stead of healing up? That's gotta be easier."

Castiel nodded. Part of him thought of how this future incarnation of him had lost his own Dean–how he'd choked out a warning upon his immediate arrival, and he thought perhaps with nothing left in the future, Future-Castiel had hoped to save the Dean he knew still lived. But a darker, nearly faithless part of him remembered how his own Grace had latched onto Future-Castiel and dragged him to this destination, and Castiel wondered if he'd intended to come here at all.

The answer was too slippery, dancing around his fingers as he tried to grasp it.

"Well, whatever," Dean was saying, "We'll just hafta ask when he wakes up. Right now, something else I gotta do."

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialing through the menus.

"What're you doing?"

"Something I shoulda done in the first place."

\-----------------------------

Dean was gone, meeting Sam, when the future Castiel finally woke up.

It wasn't a smooth waking.

Future-Castiel jerked upright with a violent start, sudden and alarming.

"DEAN! NO!"

Castiel took two tentative steps toward him, pausing in uncertainty as Future-Castiel curled over, and spun off the other side of the bed, grasping for any sort of weapon available.

The strange half-consciousness that had pinned itself to his mind flailed at him with terror and fury. Castiel attempted to send soothing waves of calm and security to it, but they didn't seem to do much.

Future-Castiel only paused in his search for a weapon upon noting that the hotel room was lit, warm, and generally empty of anyone beyond the two of them. It was likely that the working electricity and undamaged accoutrements were more reassuring than Castiel, but he didn't much mind what calmed him so long as it did.

"You—you're me," he said, huge eyes fixed on Castiel. "When am I?"

Castiel moved closer in case he needed to restrain his double. "Your past. Dean is with Sam right now."

"What?!"

The other him was very suddenly in his face, gripping his shoulders with inhuman strength.

"Is Sam— Is it Detroit?" he demanded.

Gripping the hands clutching him, Castiel shook his head. "Sam is still determined to refuse the Devil. We are nowhere near Detroit. Dean believes that choosing to work together again will deter them from the path that led to your future," he explained as gently as he could.

Future-Castiel relaxed marginally, then tightened his fingers like claws, digging into his vessel's flesh.

"Why aren't you with them?! What if Sam—" but he didn't finish, Castiel pushing him back onto the bed.

"They will be fine," he said, trying to inject as much authority into the statement as he could muster.

Future-Castiel fought him, attempting to twist free, making the stitches in his midsection well with fresh blood, much to Castiel's surprise and dismay. He really had believed the injury would be fully healed by now.

Perhaps Dean's assessment was not that far off.

Certainly it was much easier to hold him down than Castiel would have expected from a full angel; even from one presently fugitive from Heaven.

Finally his prisoner's head fell back against the pillows, eyes squeezed shut as if in pain.

"I'm still alive," he growled. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing as Castiel watched. "How? I should be fucked by now."

As he began to respond, his body-double startled him.

"Or–oh fuck! Is this— Is this how he would've imagined us? Am I even out of 2014, or is this his early birthday present surprise? Here, have a taste of Dean before you _have_ him," he sneered, stilling under Castiel's hands. "Happy birthday, baby bro. Have your very own human-inspired wet dream. You and him, all untainted and full of stupid fucking hope."

The last, Future-Castiel snarled, swiping at his wrists as if to dislodge them.

"You can even watch them go at it!"

"I don't understand what you're talking about," Castiel said, completely bewildered. He didn't even know where to start: Who this unnamed "he" was that would be imagining them, why Castiel would have a birthday at all, the fact that he and Dean were not engaging in sexual activities. It was all too strange, just like this other him.

Future-Castiel barked out a laugh, and it was an ugly sound, accompanied by an even uglier, sneering approximation of a smile. "Of course you don't. No clue what all that staring at his mouth, or watching him sleep, or what that little tingle is you get when he touches you–no clue what any of that means. Right."

Castiel frowned. The implication that his behavior indicated a physical attraction to Dean was not lost on him, but the idea was alien and unsettling.

"What happened in five years that left you like this?" he wondered aloud.

The glaring face beneath him told him how unwelcome such a question was. A flurry of resentful, bitter feelings crossed between their minds, crackling and oppressive.

"I think I'm starting to see why Dean always accused me of being so holier-than-thou. Well, you can shove it right where you want Dean's dick, you repressed ass."

"Why are you so insistent that I wish to engage Dean in sex?"

"Because I'm you, you mentally-impaired dick! I've already lived our future, I know what we want, I got on with it years ago! Though I gotta say, now I've gotten a chance to chat with myself, it's kind of a wonder Dean put up with it long as it took to get in my pants."

Shocked, Castiel pulled away. "I...see," he said, floundering for anything more intelligent or appropriate. Unrestrained, Future-Castiel sat up and shifted to lean against the headboard. He watched Castiel with narrowed eyes, being released apparently all he required to quiet down.

Castiel tried to come to terms with the knowledge that this version of himself had apparently had sex with Dean, but the thought made him feel hot and uncomfortable. Without thinking about it, he decided to skirt the unfamiliar feelings rather than face them at the moment, telling himself he would examine them and this information at length later.

"Who are you expecting a birthday present from?" He asked, and if it was nowhere near as smooth a deflection as Dean would've managed, it served its purpose.

Amusement and a dark knowing seeped across the barrier between them as Future-Castiel accepted it and moved on. "Lucifer."

Castiel sucked in a breath.

"Yeah, I said Lucifer. Cumguzzler offered me Dean's immortal everything in exchange for razing Heaven alongside him. If— If I just..." Future-Cas stopped, looking at his hands, curled, palms up in his lap. He took a deep breath and it felt like the rise and fall of the tide, the gravity of it like the moon's pull.

"I couldn't. I— We were Heaven's finest. We were the greatest of Heaven's garrisons, peopled with the best of the best, the most powerful, the most steadfast, the most talented of Heaven's guardians. Not a single member of our garrison was less than exceptional. And you could still go back and direct them," Future-Castiel explained.

"You could still go back. You probably should. Dean will never say yes. And Sam never _won't_. The angels will shut Heaven off and abandon you, no matter what. This future— You can be spared. You can-" Future-Castiel's voice hitched and he swallowed hard. "You never have to become me."

Castiel stood watching him, unmoving, for a minute. "And what," he asked, breaking the heavy silence that had descended, "Would happen to Dean? If I did that."

One side of his doppelganger's mouth rose. "No matter what we do, it's always him, isn't it." He shook his head, sighing. "I'd still be here. I protected him through all this once. I can do it again. Hopefully this time without a two month stint of climbing the walls in panic every time he goes out the front gates. Maybe I can even keep Bobby alive this time."

"What—"

"Don't ask. Suffice it to say we should never have let him go back home. And this time I won't."

Future-Castiel still hadn't looked up from his palms, completely still. Castiel watched him, emotions he was still far too much a novice at feeling—much less interpreting and handling—bombarding him.

One thing he knew for certain. "I can't leave him."

"You should," Future-Castiel told him bluntly. He began to open his mouth to say something, _anything_. But Future-Castiel beat him to it. "I'm tired. I'm going back to sleep. I'll be fine alone if you want to go see how the boys are doing."

With that, he scooted down the bed and under the covers, turning his back on Castiel. Rejection and loss hit him solidly in the chest, like they had back in the green room, when Dean told him they were done. He wanted to reach out, turn his double over to tell him it would be fine this time–they'd figure it out. They'd win this time, and none of that mess would ever happen.

But he couldn't. Even though he knew the other him was still awake and tense on the bed, he couldn't bring himself to do anything. Despair, black and overwhelming, flooded across their mind link, aborting any efforts he would have made. Castiel turned away, moving over to the window and drawing the drapes back to stare out into the night.

He didn't move from that spot until the sun had long since risen, the Impala pulled into a spot in front of the room, and Dean and Sam both stepped out of the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _Judith_ by A Perfect Circle.


	3. Angostura Oceans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only been a couple weeks, but Cas is already sick of Dean's controlling and Castiel's babysitting. He's also getting sick of the Winchesters' seeming lack of urgency regarding the impending apocalypse. It might be time to start making his own plans.

Wind cut through the Impala, loud enough that Dean had the radio turned up to "I didn't want eardrums anymore anyway."

Cas didn't mind. He really wasn't interested in yet another lecture from Dean about the cigarette he dangled out the window, nor in Sam jumping to his defense and telling his brother to back off, and the volume discouraged both.

Even wordless, however, Dean found a way to express his displeasure, waves of resentment just falling all over themselves to get over the bench seat and guilt Cas into stopping.

At least Castiel wasn't there, glaring openly at him and making no effort whatsoever not to broadcast his disgust across the whole mind-meld thing. Thankfully, Cas noted, he'd made himself pretty scarce since that first night, only showing up to drag Cas back to the hotel room when Dean got worried.

And Dean got worried a lot. A guy could barely find a hit, or hell,  _get laid_  without Dean Winchester sending his still-functional pet angel to interrupt. Cas had, however, quickly made it understood that Dean wouldn't be telling him what to do. Trying to break Cas of his bad habits had ended in a truly ugly argument that devolved into a straight-up brawl, where Cas proved that even high as fuck, he could still hold his own, even if it meant a few busted stitches.

That had led to a fight between Sam and Dean (though that one stayed verbal), which ended with Dean storming out and stumbling back blind-drunk at five in the morning.

Surprisingly, Sam was particularly sympathetic, maintaining that if Cas's addictions weren't hurting anyone, why shouldn't they allow him his coping mechanisms? Cas was almost grateful, but every time he looked at Sam, he saw Lucifer in that fucking white suit, telling him he'd give him Dean when he helped take over Heaven.

In the rearview, Dean shot him another pissy look, clearly trying to will him to drop the cigarette and start obeying like the good little spaniel he expected "his" fallen angels to emulate. Cas grinned back at him, sharp-toothed and insincere. He wondered idly if his Dean had been this passive aggressive, and he'd just never noticed...

"You're stinking up the whole car, you know that?" Dean snapped, voice raised over all the noise already bombarding them. "You're gonna be the one treating the leather when we get to Bobby's."

"Am I?" Cas asked, not bothering to speak over the roar of the wind and music.

Dean bristled further. "Yeah. And you're gonna do it every time, until you start respecting my baby."

Cas shrugged and looked away, taking a last, pointed drag and releasing the butt to the wind.

"Or you could just drop me off somewhere. Stop carrying me around like luggage," he suggested, rolling his window up.

"What, and let you wind up dead in an alley somewhere? Yeah, I don't think so."

"Be more controlling, baby, you know how hot it gets me."

Dean spluttered, a faint flush coming up in his cheeks. It was a good look on him.

"Guys," Sam interrupted before Dean could get his mouth under control and find something appropriately cutting to say. "Come on, can't you cut it out for a little while? Cas, he's not asking that much, just don't smoke in the car. Dean, maybe he'd stop if you stopped acting like an overbearing stage mom all the time."

"Over–what the hell, Sam? Saying, 'don't smoke in my car,' is not overbearing."

Cas couldn't see, but he imagined Sam rolling his eyes. "Yeah, but trying to control his every move is."

"Sammy—"

"When are we getting to Bobby's?" Cas asked loudly. "Unless you've got some lead on the Colt you haven't mentioned. I could really use some time out of this car."

"What, so you can go round up your next high and pick up some more STDs? There even room left on your dance card?"

It was Cas's turn to glare at Dean now, but Sam beat him to the reply.

"Like you can talk, Dean. How many weird rashes has it been now?"

Dean waved a finger in Sam's face. "One time! One time, and that was years ago—way before Cas rebooted me into Body 2.0."

"I did not want to know that," Sam muttered.

"Then don't ask."

Ignoring them both, Cas leaned his head against the window, watching the landscape pass in a blur, all dried-out fields of weeds, and decrepit wood and barbed-wire fences. What little they passed in the way of trees were scraggly shortleaf pines, ugly in their long stretches of barren trunk and sparse tufts of half-brown needles. If he looked out the back, he could see a cloud of dust rising behind them, despite the fact that they were on a paved road.

It felt barren and oppressive, like the emptiness had become its own mass and was pressing down on his lungs just to watch him squirm. The interior of the Impala was asphyxiating, imprisoning him with restlessness rather than protecting him from the bleak expanse of barely-alive farmland beyond.

Once again he could feel Dean's gaze on him, just adding to the weight, and pinning him in place.

"What?" he snapped, realizing that the brothers had finished their bickering while he spaced out. "Not smoking, not drinking, or anything else. What am I doing to annoy you now?"

He glanced at the rearview in time to see Dean's brow furrowing in worry rather than irritation. Dean looked away, focusing on the road.

"Nothing," he said, putting his foot down heavier on the gas.

Cas went back to staring out the window.

\-----------------------------

It was the middle of the night when Cas was jerked awake by the trunk slamming shut. He sat up, stretching out the crick in his neck.

Dean rapped his knuckles on the window near Cas's face, telling him to get up unless he wanted to sleep in the car, voice muffled through the glass.

Cas extracted himself from the back seat, the scar on his stomach pulling as he straightened. He idly rubbed the spot, still new and tender, stitches only removed two days ago–a week longer than expected thanks to that fight with Dean. Some part of him had hoped it would heal faster with his Grace somewhat restored through whatever weird graft it had performed with Castiel's, but no such luck.

In fact, he didn't seem to have much ability to use their Grace at all. No flying, no invulnerability, no sword, no super-strength, no mind-reading or dream-walking. The only difference he'd seen was that some of his previous angelic tolerance had returned.

He didn't count that as a benefit.

Inside the motel room, Sam sat on the end of one bed, pulling off his boots.

"Ready?" he asked once Cas shut the door behind him, holding his hands out, fist on palm.

Cas sighed, honestly too tired for Rock, Paper, Scissors, but holding out his hands nonetheless.

It was the only solution to the three men, two beds quandary. Winner got a bed to himself. The losers shared, though often Dean would just sleep on the couch, if available, or the floor.

As usual, Dean lost straight off. He grumbled about it, but toed off his shoes and crawled under the covers anyway.

"Don't throw scissors all the time, Dean," Sam suggested as he handily beat Cas doing the same thing.

"Awesome." Cas muttered as he went pawing through his bag. He located the plastic handle of rum, but after a minute or five of searching, he still couldn't find what he was looking for. Frowning, he dumped the contents onto the floor, but it was to no avail.

"Where's the Vicodin?"

Dean lifted his head and glared. "You don't need it anymore."

Cas closed his eyes and took a slow breath, jaw clenched. "I want it."

"Yeah, well, too bad. We're up early tomorrow. Can't have you stumbling around half-drugged."

"Why are we getting up early?"

"Hunt. Guy crashed at 80 miles an hour in a stationary car. We're checking it out."

Cas blinked at him, head tilting before he caught himself and stopped. The gesture reminded him too keenly of how he used to be—something he hadn't realized until he'd seen Castiel do it three times in the space of one twenty minute conversation.

"A hunt. You're going on a hunt. Why?"

"Uh," Dean gave him a look like he was particularly slow, "People dying from supernatural causes? It's what we do."

Sam, Cas noticed, was staying suspiciously silent, his back turned to them as he stripped out of his clothes and got ready for bed.

"I'm confused. Was the Apocalypse too last season?" Cas asked innocently.

That got Dean leaning up on his elbows to regard him.

"You didn't seem so worried about it the past three weeks you spent  _getting high_ , Cas."

Cas opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it shut, thinking better of pointing out that he’d been high a lot longer than that.

Instead he stowed his rum back into his bag and grabbed a room key.

"Don't wait up," he growled over his shoulder as he slunk to the door.

"Cas. _Cas!_ " Dean barked, but any order he was about to give was lost when the door slammed after Cas.

These bumfuck nowhere bars wouldn't be open too much longer, but it didn't usually take long to find a willing companion for the night. With any luck, he'd also find something extra to help him forget for a while.

\-----------------------------

_August 2014_

Cas was spinning, half dozing, when the beads of his 'door' clicked together.

Unconcerned, he didn't lift his head or open his eyes to identify his visitor. He already knew who it was, and Cas? Cas just didn't care.

Footsteps clunked across the flowing, heavy floor, coming to rest in the crests of waves where they broke against the crown of his head.

"Cas," echoed through the sibilant eddies of currents rushing through his head.

"Hi—" Cas began, "I—"

The sky flashed down his throat, choking him. In a panic at the sensation, Cas rose from the floor, reaching for any anchor. Strong hands caught him around the arms, dragging him to his feet.

"Cas!"

The sea swirled around his feet, sucking him under.

"Fuck."

A bright, singular pain broke across his cheek, drawing him up from the depths of ocean darkness, cracking through the susurrations and ordering him in along a steep drop-off—a long shelf fitting straight and unforgiving against his backbone.

Cas faded his eyes open, a slow roll that raised a drawling, over-delicate curtain up against the screen of HD images Dean'd have him swallow and shit out.

Green eyes.

Green eyes punched through him as he tried to ease through the openings of the overture, ruining his eardrums and the pleasant ecstasy he'd accomplished on the floor of a decrepit cabin in fucking middle of nowhere South Dakota.

Cas pushed at the hands curled around the collar of his borrowed jacket.

They let go easily enough, and Cas stumbled back, losing his footing as he hit the edge of a bed and tumbled onto the shitty mattress beyond it.

He finally really opened his eyes, focusing on his company.

"My hero," he breathed.

Dean loomed over him at the edge of the bed, guns in their holsters and face cocked in bitterness.

"Get the hell up, Cas. We've got a supply mission in half an hour. I swear to God, if you're too fucked up to do this—"

"Oh fuck off. You only said I had to be able to drive. When was the last time I couldn't drive?"

Dean was silent, glaring murder at him. If he knew no better, he'd think Dean was disappointed in him. But Cas knew damn well that Dean held himself responsible for—though incompetent at—protecting and directing lost angels.

But the angels had damn well left them all, months ago. There was nothing left to protect.

"Cas!"

Snapping out of his reverie, Cas looked straight into Dean's eyes, green and flecked with gold and brown and determination, and measured in ways angels had never been able to manage.

Dean's fingers were curled around his collar again, a subtle brush of thumbs against his skin.

Cas surged up, hands breaking Dean's away from his clothing, pushing Dean's enclosing posture away from him as he got to his feet.

" _What_? You want me to drive? I'll drive. I can drive underwater."

Dean drew back, his face scrunching in consternation. "Underwater?"

Cas followed, pressing closer than Dean had told him was socially acceptable.

"I might not be good for much, but I can still drive underwater," he snapped, "But you have to leave me room to breathe. It's not like there's much air..."

Slowly, cautiously—like Cas was a dangerous, skittish dog—Dean asked, "What're you talking about, Cas?"

Cas twisted, turned, brought his wings around to mirror Dean. His features muddied and swam through the tides of Dean's six wings, and he recalled with a shock that _his_  wings had been stripped, dissolved away into the atmosphere like so much ether. The last trails curved around his shoulders, dispersing in hideous slow-motion.

He couldn't mirror Dean now.

"Goddamnit, how high are you?"

"Not that high, anymore," he answered, meaning high as God, Heaven, and angels, but knowing Dean would believe he meant his current level of intoxication, and that was good enough.

Dean eyed him critically, a solid figure through the rippling, dull grey that drowned Chitaqua.

"Yeah, well, how about you sleep it off in the back of the Jeep. Yeager can drive the truck."

Cas wrestled the liquid of his face into a glare; it was unsurprisingly difficult. "I can drive myself."

Between one blink and another, Dean was inches away again.

"Yeah, well, I don't agree. You're high as a kite. And what are you even on, this time?"

Trying to retreat, Cas found himself being swept into Dean like a whirlpool; watched the wisps of his melting wings change course and get sucked in. "Lemme go," he demanded, wishing he could jet squid-like backwards, in a cloud of occluding, inky black.

Dean closed his eyes, eyebrows high as if searching for patience he'd long ago exhausted. "I'm not touching you. What are you on?"

The bottle was somewhere over near the abyss he'd been so peacefully not-existing in earlier. He motioned toward it. "Whatever was in there."

Abruptly Dean was gone. When Cas relocated him, he was holding a little, orange bottle.

"Goddamnit, Cas." Dean shook the bottle at him. "You mixed 'em all together? You even know what's in here?"

Cas shook his head. "Thought it would be more exciting that way."

Dean's mouth thinned.

"You friggin' child. Fine, you wanna fuck yourself up all to hell? Fine. Just get your damn boots on and meet me in the car," he gritted out.

The rattle of the pills as he dropped the bottle ruptured against Cas's heart, punching like pellets of birdshot, popping before they could penetrate.

Before Cas could respond, Dean was out the door, beads clacking behind him.

Sighing, Cas sank to the floor, working at the clasps of his sandals and trying to work the laces of his boots. It was tedious, frustrating work as they slipped oil-quick between his fingers.

After fighting for quite some time with the laces, the boots remained untied, and Cas hung his head, too weary to try again.

The familiar sound of his truck's engine turning over, followed by Dean's Jeep, rumbled through the cabin from the little road below. Cas waited, expecting Dean to storm in and drag him bodily along behind.

The rattle of the engines moved away, fading into silence.

Cas remained where he was, slumped over his untied boots.

\-----------------------------

_2009_

Miraculously, Dean held out until the sun had already risen.

The whoosh of wings and a sudden increased sense of presence pulled him out of the troubled embrace of sleep. Cas groaned, turning his face into the warm shoulder of whoever's bed he was sharing and inhaling the gentle base notes of sandalwood and rose that clung to her skin below sex and sweat and too many manhattans.

"You know, you really don't have to do everything he says," he slurred, refusing to look up at Castiel. "It's not like you don't have much more pressing business than being Dean's errand boy."

Fabric rustled as Castiel shifted, accompanied by a flush of embarrassment and wounded pride that he failed to mask from Cas's mind. Cas managed to curb the sadistic pleasure of it from filtering across the link in return.

"You're my responsibility. If Dean calls to retrieve you from whatever—" Castiel floundered a moment, trying to find the right word, "—unclean pursuit you're drowning yourself in, I'm obligated to answer."

Cas finally rolled away from his sleeping companion, sitting up. The woman made a soft noise and shifted a little, not waking. He suspected that if she did, Castiel would mojo her back into dreamland.

He ran a finger over a curl of her hair, admiring the way the growing light caught in it and sparkled with nuances of color, a tiny prism of antique gold and silt and caramel.

She was very pretty, and he would have preferred to stay and enjoy an encore, but his nanny wasn't going to permit it.

"I'm my own keeper, Cas _tiel_. We may be the same person, but we're not the  _same person_ , and only one of us is in any way responsible for me."

Castiel puffed up, discomfited. Even if Cas hadn't had a direct line to what Castiel was thinking, the way his wings fluffed out and twitched would've said it loud and clear.

He hadn't mentioned still being able to see the wings. He knew Castiel didn't know, and keeping the secret gave him a sense of power. It was his and his alone, as so little in his eons of existence had been. It was silly, but there it was.

"You're only here because I—" Castiel began, but realized mid-sentence exactly what he'd been about to say and shut his mouth, fixing his eyes out the window.

But if Cas wasn't going to get to indulge in some delightful morning sex with a very toned eventer—hey, he was 'saving a horse, riding an eventer,' here; it was practically charity—then he was damn well not going to let Castiel have a good morning either.

"Because you...? Why, Castiel, are we ready to go there, already?"

Castiel turned a look of profound disapproval on him, wings shaking out before pulling in tight. He didn't say anything though, and Cas counted it as a win.

"Well," he grinned, long, lazy, and unkind, "If I'm really here because you...whatevered—then is it really fair of you to pass me off on Sam and Dean to babysit all the time? Don't they deserve a break from us?"

It was low, it was dirty, and it got the desired reaction: Castiel shifted, unconsciously moving back as his posture closed ever-so-slightly in on itself.

"Dean thought it would be better if—"

"There you go again, doing whatever Dean says. You're pretty quick to play the sub in this relationship." Castiel's wings snapped even tighter against his back, though his face went blank. Cas's grin widened. "Hey, I'm not bashing it. He does have a certain...talent at the whole leashes and floggers thing. I'm just sayin', if you're gonna roll over for him, you might as well get to enjoy the fun parts."

Castiel's expression darkened, but instead of a rebuttal, he disappeared with a whoosh of displaced air, uncharacteristically leaving Cas behind.

"Huh," he laughed to himself. "Interesting."

\-----------------------------

Cas didn't know what to expected when he got back to the motel, but what he got was his bag repacked and a note pinned under a burner phone.

"Working case. Call me," the note read in Dean's sharp, all-caps scrawl. Cas flipped the phone open and scrolled to the contacts. Number one on speed dial: Dean. Number two: Dean. Number three: Sam. There were no other names, and he wondered if Dean had left Castiel's out on purpose.

With nothing else to do, Cas walked over to Dean's bed, denoted by the duffle thrown on the pillows, and collapsed face down. The bag was inches from his face when he turned to get comfortable, and from this distance it smelled strongly of Dean; the generic shampoo, his cheap, common deodorant. Underlying the dollar store soap was the scent of Hoppe's and a sting of metal, juxtaposed with the base, tartly pungent way his clothes got when they were worn more than washed.

Cas breathed it in greedily, shivering with a half-dead remembrance of sensation. He could drown in this smell, cheap and violent and filthy.

But he wouldn't. Not here, not now.

Swallowing thickly, he rolled over and sat up, pushing away memories that hadn't happened yet (now never would). He needed a distraction—anything to shut them out.

Rummaging through his own bag revealed that Dean hadn't thrown out his rum overnight. With a sigh of relief, he spun off the cap and let the rotgut raze his throat until his need for air took precedence.

The initial foul, turpentine taste faded in his mouth as he breathed, leaving behind something acrid and sickly sweet. Cas didn't really like rum, but he liked the burn, and the way the relentless flavor wrapped around it. Vodka, gin...they didn't work like that, and Dean wouldn't even let him look for Absinthe, erroneously claiming it to be illegal.

And Dean drank whiskey.

So. Rum.

The first tingle of alcohol-warmth started to creep into his veins. Cas sighed into the comfort, just starting to relax when the phone buzzed in his pocket.

He debated a moment before pulling it out, knowing it could only be one person. Still, he caved.

It was a text. "U back yet," shortly followed by "be back n 30 dont get stoend." Cas bristled and snapped the phone shut.

Fuck Dean. He'd get stoned if he wanted. He'd still be able to help if he was stoned. He proved that plenty of times back at Chitaqua.

For a fleeting second, he missed it.

The thought scared him. Badly enough that a whisper of worry brushed against him all the way from wherever Castiel was fluttering around. He very firmly shut Castiel out, which seemed to work since he didn't appear in the room.

He needed out. Out of this room before Dean came back and started in on him. He needed air. Fresh air and space. He needed a fuckload of pills and a reservoir of liquor. Even those bottom-shelf pink gin shots he'd been drinking last night with...Joan?

Grabbing his key once more and shoving the phone into a pocket, he took one last swig from his godawful rum before exiting stage left.

Dean's leather coat was next to the door, draped across the back of a chair. The sight of it stopped Cas, hand on the doorknob.

It wasn't like Dean to leave it behind, but if they were playing fed, he might've chosen not to throw it into the car.

Cas reached out, practically against his will, fingers brushing the worn leather. It felt bruised and salt-gritty against his skin. He'd never touched it before, not really. Maybe a hand clasped over it in desperation back when he still had a pilot's license on Angel Airways. But never...he'd never just touched it.

Before he knew what he was doing, Cas had slipped it over his shoulders, arms finding their way into the sleeves. It was over-sized on Dean. On him...he glanced in the mirror. It swallowed him. Of course, it fit as well as that overcoat ever had, so really, he looked no different than he had back then: like a little kid wearing his dad's clothing.

But this was Dean's. This felt like Dean.

A long moment passed, Cas biting his lower lip, concentrating on breathing.

Now was not the time for the sick longing eating away at the space under his lungs. The Winchesters would be back soon, and he needed to not be around.

He'd never intended to be here, all over again, avoiding Dean's disapproval, fighting a war with himself between pleasing Dean and proving that he wasn't just another lackey.

Yet somehow he _was_ back here. This time, though, he'd find some way to prove he didn't need Dean.

Unfortunately, that was the moment he heard the Impala's engine rumble into the parking lot outside. Shit. That had been nowhere near thirty minutes.

He shrugged the leather coat off, dropping it back over the chair. Glancing around in one last, desperate bid for freedom, he realized there was no way out short of making a run for it out the front door. Tragically, Dean could probably outrun him.

Sighing in resignation, he returned to his bag, determined to get as much alcohol in him as possible if he had to face the Winchesters.

The door opened before he was ready, and he swallowed more industriously.

"Cas?" Sam asked, filling him with the temporary relief of reprieve from Dean's criticism. He lowered the bottle, rubbing his forearm across his mouth as he turned.

"Sam," he answered, taking a moment to swallow hard against the way his stomach tried to refuse the sudden triple-infusion of straight, shit rum. "Hey."

Within moments Dean was also in the room, and Cas could only be glad that he was starting to see things all fuzzy and disjointed.

Dean looked over to the table, where the cell had been, to the handle in Cas's fist, and finally at Cas. His expression closed into angry lines.

"Good to see you know how to answer a simple text, Cas," he bit out, ripping his tie off with way more prejudice than necessary. His suit jacket followed, landing haphazardly on the motel room floor. "Not like I left a note or anything to call me."

Cas breathed hard in and out through his nose. "Like I told Castiel earlier, you're not my keeper, Dean. I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself, and I don't have to answer to you."

It took Dean a handful of strides to reach him and snatch the rum from his grasp.

"Yeah," he sneered, studying the nearly-empty bottle, "You can take care of yourself just fine. You even wait half an hour before you started, or is this just coffee to you?"

Snarling, Cas grabbed the rum back, capping it violently enough that the cap went flying off under one of the beds. He ignored it, slamming the handle onto the stand next to the TV. His coordination was bad—the room turning increasingly blurry—and it nearly fell.  He just managed to catch it and force it onto the fake wood surface.

"Not. My. Keeper."

"We've got an _apocalypse_  going on out there, Cas!" Dean shouted as Cas turned his back and stumbled toward the threadbare couch.

Cas froze, hackles rising, still turned away from Dean. "An apocalypse? An  _apocalypse_?! You sure? Because I wouldn't've figured, with the way you two are taking on fucking two-bit monsters!"

Dean spun him around, suddenly inches from his face.

"You know what, Cas, we got nothing right now. No leads! No demon signs, nothing! The best we've got is what we've always got! So you want to help us out with the friggin' apocalypse, maybe you should  _make a little effort **yourself**!_ "

" _Well maybe you should consider saying yes to Michael!_ " Cas shouted right back.

Dean pulled back like he'd been struck. He stared at Cas for a moment before he turned on his heel and stalked out the door, slamming it thunderously.

Sam sighed, settling wearily into one of the two chairs at the tiny, shitty table. Cas fidgeted, unsure of what to do without the threat of Dean's anger right in his face. He settled on grabbing the remainder of the handle and sitting across from Sam, taking a long pull and putting the bottle between them.

Much to his surprise, Sam took the handle by the neck and drained the rest of it.

Staring at him with creased brow, Sam handed the empty bottle back to him. "That was a dick move, Cas."

Cas ducked his head, already ashamed. But on the other hand...

...it would be the simplest way of fixing everything.

"It might work, but would it really save anyone, Cas?" Sam persisted, stupid hazel eyes way too earnest.

When Cas didn't answer, Sam continued. "Cas, I know it seems like the only way to stop all that—all that stuff with him and me and you in the future. Maybe it does seem like making him say 'yes' is the best way out of this craphole. But did we get back together there? Did we make up? 'Cause Cas, I really think we've got a way out here, man. I don't know how yet, but at least I'm not alone and saying 'yes' to Lucifer."

Cas shrunk, the shame building. He didn't want Dean to say 'yes.' Hell, the night Dean spent out in that field, screaming himself hoarse at the sky, Cas had ended up dragging him back to his cabin, punching him hard enough to open his cheekbone, and locking him out for the next month. It hadn't done any favors to whatever it was between them.

It hadn't been a good time for either.

Glancing up to apologize, he found Sam leaning toward him, face soft with sympathy. Cas blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the memory of Lucifer kneeling over him. Standing unsteadily, he whacked his elbow on the chair arm in rum-induced clumsiness. Cursing, he turned from Sam, passing a hand over his face.

"Lucifer offered to give him to me," he blurted, surprising himself.

Behind him, Sam shifted, probably just as startled.

But when he asked it, Sam asked it slow and calm, like he was afraid of spooking a wild animal. "Then Lucifer? Or Now Lucifer?"

Of course Sam would be able to keep it together, presented with the information Cas had so carefully been keeping close, secreted away. He could just imagine Dean's reaction. He'd assume it was Now Lucifer and yell until Cas was forced to scream back in his face.

"Cas?" Sam prompted, and Cas realized he'd been silent too long.

He returned to his chair, leaning back until he could pretend the leather outline of Dean's coat was embracing him. "Then Lucifer. He–I was dying, Sam. Except I wasn't."

"Your Grace," he guessed. "You weren't completely Fallen."

Cas nodded, idly pushing at the now-empty handle and squinting as he realized the words on the label had that weird outline to them where they were still and readable, yet somehow still in motion.

"It's why I'm here," he hedged, unwilling to say the ugly, full truth of his wild leap through time. "He offered me Dean if I helped him take over Heaven."

Sam sucked in a breath through his teeth, tensing. Cas could almost hear the litany of curses going through his head. He visibly swallowed them back before speaking.

"Okay. What did you say? You refused, right?"

"I—he left before I could answer. He told me to think about it, and he disappeared." He dropped his gaze to the table top, unable to look Sam in the eye. Almost against his will, he admitted quietly, "If I stayed there I would've eventually agreed."

"Cas—" Sam said, but Cas didn't let him get further, already choking on his own guilt and weakness.

"I know, Sam! I know. If he said 'yes' to Michael, I'd never forgive him. But if—if he said 'yes,' at least he'd be safe. Lucifer wouldn't be able to threaten his tenure in Heaven. You wouldn't ever have to be Satan's vessel. You could die and go to Heaven. And maybe—" he stopped, swallowing at the thickness in his throat and the burning wetness threatening his eyes, "Maybe Castiel could just stay an angel." He left unsaid the world of indignities, discomforts, and miseries that went along with the alternative, willing Sam to use that empathy and superior logic of his to intuit everything he kept hidden away at the back of his tongue.

"Cas," Sam tried again, sighing the word like it pained him. "I understand, okay? I get it. I promise you: We will fix this."

Cas laughed, the sound bitterly ragged. He stopped when two large hands curled around his.

Looking up, he met those impossibly earnest eyes. "I mean it. Whatever it takes, Cas. I will help you fix this. I promise."

Swallowing, Cas took a shaky breath, realizing that for the first time since he'd been back here, Sam didn't remind him of Lucifer.

"Even if Dean won't like it?"

"Even if Dean won't like it."

For a long minute, he just studied Sam's face, unable to break eye contact. He knew he should feel trapped, but he didn't. If anything, he felt more at ease than he had in two years. It was an unexpected relief.

"Okay," Cas finally nodded. "Okay."

Sam smiled softly, lips pressing together as he squeezed Cas's hands and released them.

"First, though, let's empty some of Dean's 'Hunter's Helper' supply," Sam said, getting up on his stupidly long legs and digging through Dean's duffle to emerge with his fifth of whiskey. Seemingly moments later—at least in drunk time—he was seated across from Cas again. "I wanna hear the whole story."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manhattan recipe:  
> *2oz Rye whiskey  
> *1.5oz Sweet vermouth  
> *couple dashes Angostura bitters  
> *cherry for garnish
> 
> Pink gin recipe:  
> *1.5oz gin  
> *couple dashes Angostura bitters


	4. I need you here (I've gotta be going)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big, apocalyptic stuff is going down, and on their way to investigate, the boys stumble on something...

_May 2010, Then_

  
"Good morning, Dean."

Dean rolled over, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Hey, you're back," he yawned, voice sleep-slurred. "How'd you know I was awake?"

Cas turned in his seat at the wobbly motel table, smiling faintly.

"Right, stupid question," Dean murmured, slipping out of bed and stretching. He padded over and ruffled Cas's hair, leaning over his shoulder to peer at the laptop. "What's with the old folks home? You planning retirement?"

Ignoring Dean's teasing, Cas switched tabs to the article he'd been reading: "Mysterious epidemic at Serenity Valley Convalescent Home leaves no survivors."

"I believe," he said, tapping the screen, "this is the work of a Horseman. Pestilence, to be exact."

Dean frowned and leaned closer, one arm slipping around Cas's shoulders to grip the opposite arm of the chair, propping the other on the table and caging Cas in. It wasn't claustrophobic; on the contrary, Cas's stomach fluttered pleasantly at Dean's casual proximity. He remained still while Dean read, goosebumps rising where Dean brushed against him.

Dean frowned, still looming over him. "Huh. He hit anywhere else?"

Cas twisted to look up at him. "Not yet. Nothing big enough to make headlines. I believe querying hospital admittance records should give us some clue as to his next target."

Dean nodded, reaching around Cas to type in a search for nearby hospitals. "We'll start with these," he said, opening a couple new tabs, "I'm gonna take a shower first, then we can grab some grub and start in."

He drew away, yawning, and his hand gently squeezed the back of Cas's neck on the way. Cas watched as he threw his t-shirt on the bed and disappeared into the bathroom. The shower turned on, and Cas rose, padding across the room. He paused outside the door, listening as Dean moved under the spray. His lower lip disappeared between his teeth as he imagined pushing the door open, letting his clothes join Dean's, and slipping into the shower behind him.

 _Didn't think you'd join me_ , Dean would say, a smile in his voice. He'd turn, fingers drawing down Cas's sides to rest in the dimples of his back.

Cas would let himself be drawn in. _Are you disappointed?_

Dean would laugh, voice low against his ear, a whisper of cool air on his skin. Cas would shiver as Dean reached around to take his hand and bring it to his hardening dick. _What do you think?_

Swallowing, Cas would draw away—meet Dean's eyes and then push him against the wall. He'd sink to his knees...

Cas didn't pause to grab his jacket as he fled the motel room. It was chilly out; a bite of fresh thaw hovering in the air at the tail end of spring. Two doors down, a man looked over, nodding at him as he let out a long plume of smoke.

"Mornin'," the man grunted, taking another drag from his cigarette and sighing deeply, happily.

He took a breath before tilting his head, studying the man. "Why do you do that?"

The man's face screwed up in confusion before he looked at his cigarette. "What, smoke? I dunno. Feels good. Calms your nerves. You one'a those folks gonna tell me these things give ya cancer?"

Cas shook his head, chewing his lip. "Would you have one to spare?"

\---------------------------

_November 2009, Now_

  
Cas had a hangover.

He had a hangover, and Dean's snoring was testing his last nerve.

"You okay there, Cas?" Sam asked, peering over the top of his computer.

" _Fine_. I'd be better if this damn state sold liquor on Sundays."

Sam snorted and returned to the computer. "I've got some aspirin in my bag. You're welcome to it."

Over-the-counter stuff wasn't going to cut it, but it was something. "Thank you," he said, getting up to paw through Sam's bag.

Dean had been hesitant to straight up throw out Cas's drugs after the Vicodin Tossing incident, and had apparently resorted to keeping them all on the road and moving, where Cas didn't have the opportunity to replenish his stash.

One of these days Dean'd give up.

He had before.

The snoring abruptly stopped, though Dean gave no other indication that he was awake.

"Good morning," he said without thinking, hurriedly retrieving the bottle and doling out several of the pills.

Dean rolled over. "How'd you know I was awake?"

"I take it your dreams were pleasant," he replied, tipping his head back and swallowing half the pills dry. He had to work a moment to get enough moisture in his mouth to swallow the rest.

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "Mostly. What're you psychic now?"

Cas ducked his head smiling. "You snore when your sleep is untroubled."

"Loudly," Sam added.

Dean glared from one to the other, getting up and stomping into the bathroom, a muttered, "I do not snore," trailing behind him. The door slammed shut.

For a long minute, Cas stared at the closed door, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Shaking his head, he returned to his seat across from Sam.

"At least he could pull over long enough to let me get some _cigarettes_. Dick."

"He's trying," Sam sighed, "Cut him some slack, he cares about you."

Cas snorted. "He cares about his precious baby's upholstery."

Sam looked up, giving him a truly epic bitchface.

Lifting his hands in surrender, Cas leaned back in his chair.  "Fine, yes, he's worried about me. What've you got?"

Sam gave him a final disgruntled look at the weak diversion, but let it pass.

"Couple more demonic omens. Wednesday night, a hundred people missing in Virginia; found all of them dead yesterday in Historic Jamestown. Freak red tide sprung up Thursday morning right around there—looks like it's ruined the area's shellfish harvest for the year. And," he added, "Record swarms of grasshoppers also popped up Thursday, same part of the state. Decimated thousands of acres of crops already."

"Something big must've happened in Jamestown." Cas frowned, considering. "How far is it?"

Sam shrugged. "About a day's drive. Don't think we'll get there in time to talk to anyone tonight." He pursed his lips at the thought, and then nudged Cas's foot.  "We should hit the road as soon as Dean's done."

The argument was there at the tip of his tongue: Dean would want breakfast first. But he swallowed it and followed Sam's lead, stuffing the little they'd unpacked back into their bags. Sighing, he tossed both the empty rum and whiskey bottles into the trash, wishing he'd left a swallow in either.

Dean was still in the shower by the time they'd finished. With nothing to do but wait, Cas lay his head on his arms and settled in to sulk through his hangover, while Sam checked his email. Cas couldn't imagine who he'd be emailing, but felt it rude to ask.

Eyes closed, Cas found himself focusing on the patter of water in the background. It had settled into a steady rhythm, uninterrupted by the usual movement of washing.

Five minutes later, Dean was still in the shower, and Cas's cheeks were starting to burn as he strained his ears for any change in the water's fall. He swallowed, trying to breathe steadily and not imagine Dean's hand lazily chasing his pleasure under the warm spray...

"Hey, Cas, football or baseball: Which is better?"

Cas jerked upright, eyes wide. "Uh..." he said intelligently.

Sam shrugged, apologetic. "Sorry, it's a—" he gestured at the laptop and tilted his head in a little shrugging gesture, "Bobby says baseball's better, and I say it's antiquated and football's replaced it as the All-American Sport."

Sam hadn't noticed. He breathed out, a little prayer of thanks escaping him, and felt a faint questioning pulse from Castiel. He swiftly rebuffed Castiel's interest in the unusual indulgence before thinking better of it and offering a soothing—if curt—burst of apology and reassurance that all was well. The last thing he needed was Castiel flapping down and examining the situation while he fought down a stiffy.

The wall between them shuttered again quickly, but not before a flash of something he thought might be hurt slipped through. He cursed silently, pushing aside the pang of conscience to concentrate on giving Sam an answer.

"I, um," he paused to wet his lips, "I never got a chance to observe either, I'm afraid." That wasn't true; Dean had made him sit through a baseball game once, before the Croatoan outbreak had begun.

Dean had been peeved when Cas rooted for the Nationals, but it was forgotten when the Brewers won, and he got to rub it in. Seeing Dean in a good mood—the first in a long time—had been worth the mockery. The way he'd kept slinging an arm around Cas's shoulder in false conciliation at "his team's" loss—well, that had been a very pleasant bonus.

"Oh, yeah. I guess not, huh?" Sam's brow slowly began to furrow as he studied Cas more intently. "You sure you're okay? You're not coming down with something? You look a little red."

Cas tensed, his treacherous ears immediately zoning in on the tiny, half-muffled moan that accompanied a shift in the steady sounds of the shower, and nodded a little too enthusiastically. Wincing, he licked his lips again and managed: "Yeah, I'm good. I'm just—you know, I think I'm going to run over to that Shell station down the street and stock up on cigarettes while Dean's otherwise occupied."

The heat spreading across his face turned up a notch at the unconscious phrasing. He bit his tongue, kicking himself for the slip.

Sam nodded slowly, doubtfully. "Okay, man, just...don't take too long. I wanna get outta here in the next half hour if we can."

"Yeah, sure. Of course," Cas mumbled, slinging on his jacket and miraculously managing not to trip on his own feet.

Outside, he sighed in relief, leaning against the wall, painfully grateful to be free of that too-small room. A lighter clicked nearby, the biting scent of a cigarette just lit drifted past. Cigarettes. Right. Cas set off before he could bother the wiry, leather-tanned woman for a spare to tide him over on the walk to the gas station.

\---------------------------

The stretch down 64 was a long blur of picturesque fields of timothy and Kentucky bluegrass, off beyond the tractor-mown shoulders of the interstate and looming billboards advertising adult entertainment and family restaurants. It slowly blurred into the bramble-clogged forests and unkempt pastureland of West Virginia, dotted with rusting corrugated steel barns and new-growth stands trying their hardest to rival the vivid fall colors of colder states.

Several hours into this progression of changing American landscape, Cas was enjoying the buzz of the Oxy he'd gotten off the junkies out behind the Dairy Queen on a detour back from the Shell, and Dean was pulling off at Exit 99 in Charleston for the Biggerson's.

"Dude, remember that time we won free food from this place for a year?" he nudged Sam, who rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, and then Bela stole the rabbit foot, I almost got killed by a couple of Gordon's nutjob friends, and you lost every one of those stupid scratch tickets." Sam huffed a dry laugh. "Served you right."

"Whatever. They've got these T-Day Mega Deluxe Sandwiches right now, man. Turkey, dressing, cranberry sauce...the whole nine yards, right in one sandwich. And you get this onion ring casserole and cheese fries on the side. With gravy. And—" he jabbed a finger at Sam, like this was especially important, "—your choice of pumpkin or pecan pie. It's gonna be awesome."

Cas felt a little sick at the thought of all that crap piled together, and wondered when Dean had found the time to memorize the menu.

Sam just snorted. "We're barely into November."

Dean pointed at him again, staring across the divide with brows set to Serious Business mode. "Thanksgiving is a feeling, not a date. We're going."

It was such an absurd sentiment, Cas burst into laughter, curling over himself and swirling and swirling all bendy and light like clouds.

Reality was a great place right now, all distant and soft. Even Dean snapping his fingers in front of Cas's face wasn't much of a downer.

"Hey. HEY. Cas, come on. Cas. Goddamnit, what're you—" He turned to Sam. "What the hell's he on?"

But Sam just shrugged, because when Cas came back to their motel room, Sam still typing away at email or Skype or whatever while Dean haphazardly threw his shit into his bag, Cas just winked at him and tucked the cartons of Pall Malls and bottles full of pharmaceutical ecstasy into his duffle, slung it over his shoulder, and marched back outside to enjoy a smoke beside the Impala.

It was his secret. He never had to tell anyone what was in his belly, so twisty and comforting and sweet.

The door beside him jerked open, an alarming burst of fresh air rushing at his face. Cas cringed, squinting up into Dean's glare.

"C'mon, Cas. You need food in your system."

Taking Dean's hand, Cas maneuvered himself out of the car, swaying on the balls of his feet as Dean slammed the door shut behind him.

"If you really gotta euthanize yourself, can't you save it 'til we're back on the magic fingers?"

Cas rolled into Dean, breaths away from his skin. "You once told me I had magic fingers..."

Dean pushed him away like he'd been shocked, and Cas tried to follow. But Dean was already gone, back turned and disappearing behind the brightly decorated glass door.

After a moment swaying through the stratosphere, Cas thunked one foot in front of him, just barely keeping each step crashing along 'til he slammed a little too hard into the door. He reeled back, and Sam rushed over to catch him, leading him inside to where Dean sat.

Sam settled him down into the booth, easing him further across its expanse until he was pressed against a wall, Dean all fuzzy and pulsing with agitation across the table. A broad hand gripped his side and pulled him away from the fake wood paneling, propping him against something warm and firm. Cas tilted his head to look up at Sam, who smiled thinly.

"Howdy, folks! What can I get you today?" sang an overly cheerful voice.

Cas glared at the server in too-bright stripes, making a pained noise, which earned him a suspicious frown.

"He's, uh, just had a cavity filled. Still pretty out of it. Doc said he could eat after an hour, and he's been begging for a milkshake. Vanilla," Sam lied easily. "I'll, uh, I'll have the Almond Raspberry Salad and a Diet Coke."

Across the table, Dean glared at them both, before flashing a flirtatious grin at the waiter. "I'll have the T-Day Mega Deluxe, with a slice of pecan." He momentarily flicked his eyes at Cas, betraying a glint of worry, and added, "Make that two slices. Thanks." He handed his menu to the server, still smiling—all small-town charm and too-clever promise.

Cas turned to stare at the server, but he and the boys were suddenly alone at their table, the room moving in sluggish gradients. He frowned, irritated.

"I wanted pie," he announced, struggling to sit upright.

Dean snorted. "Don't get your panties in a bunch. I got you a slice. Need to get something in your stomach besides friggin' roofies."

Cas huffed, turning away, and craned his head back in a yawn, canines jutting, before rolling to regard Dean. His face was indistinct, ever-shifting. He reminded Cas of the check-in scene in _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas_ , and Cas toppled into Sam, trying to explain through the giggles. Somehow he got it across, because Sam laughed and shook his head, pushing Cas's hair back and whispering, "Nah, Dean'd be one of the drunk lizard people."

This did not make Dean happy, but Cas laughed anyway, slipping slowly down the bench.

Sam tried to catch him, but suddenly Cas was under the table, on the other side, pressed against Dean's side.

Dean tried to move away, but Cas just moved closer, fingers ghosting up his side. He leaned closer, transfixed by the way Dean's skin seemed brighter than usual, like a fine mist of dew was nestled half-invisible across his cheek.

Cas nuzzled into his shoulder, rubbing his whole side against Dean's, and making a soft, hopeless noise as he slid the tip of his nose up the side of Dean's neck to the shell of his ear. Dean shuddered when he tricked the noise straight into a needy whimper.

And then Dean was shoving him against the inside wall of the booth, hand against his collarbone. He writhed, licking his lips at the sight of Dean, glowing and so close.

"Cas!" Dean hissed, "Keep it together, man. This's a family restaurant."

Dean's glass-green eyes slid from side to side, imperfections caught in the shift and highlighted. Cas stared in awe, still pressed against the fake wood paneling of the booth, and reached a hand up as if to touch. The hand pressing him back tightened and instead he grasped Dean's wrist. With Dean holding him in place, everything felt right in the world, and Cas held on for dear life.

He drew his bottom lip between his teeth, and Dean swallowed, eyes tracking the movement, before casting a desperate glance at Sam. Sam nodded, and they both got up, switching sides. Cas whined, reaching across the table for Dean, something thick boiling up from somewhere aching and dank and feral, demanding to grab onto Dean and sink himself in him until all that was left of him was whatever Dean decided. Sam grabbed him around the chest and held on tight, pulling him away.

Hours, decades, maybe just minutes later, their food arrived, a vanilla milkshake pushed in front of Cas, startling him back to the world outside Dean Winchester. The yearning retreated, folding back into something more compact.

Frustrated, Cas pulled the shake to him.

It was a good shake. The kind that was mostly ice cream, thick and half-impossible to drink through a straw. His cheeks hollowed out, and the straw started to collapse from the pressure, liquid just barely reaching his mouth before it caved in. Drawing back, the thick sludge of the shake overflowed, a drop of vanilla rolling down the outside of the straw. Cas leaned down to catch it with his tongue, deliberate and delicate, just the tip folding around plastic as he cleared the offending trail.

Across the table, Dean made a small, choked noise, his ridiculous, over-stuffed sandwich paused between plate and mouth. Cas slid his eyes to Dean, watching raptly. Lips bleeding into a grin, he let his tongue guide his mouth back down onto the straw. His eyes stayed locked on Dean as he wrapped his mouth around it once more, and this time, very intentionally, he sucked. Hard.

Dean blushed furiously, dropping his sandwich back on his plate.

"Jesus christ," he muttered fervently, eye glued to Cas. "Sammy, can you get this bagged? I've gotta—just—"

Cas made a low, disappointed sound, raising fingers toward Dean and forgetting the milkshake. A couple of drops dribbled from the straw as he released it, and rolled down his chin before he could wipe them away.

" _Shit_. I'll meet you at the car."

With that, Dean was gone.

A black longing rolled through Cas, deafening, crushing, as he watched Dean retreat from the diner. Sam held him back, hands bruising his arm, stopping him from clambering over his lap, slithering to the floor and crawling on hands and knees to plead for Dean to come back.

"Hey. Hey! Cas, you with me?" Sam asked, forcing Cas to meet his concerned gaze.

Cas whined low in his throat.

"Christ. Dean's right, you need something on your stomach. Come on, here," Sam slid the cheese fries in front of him, "You'll like these. Just—once you've cleared the plate, we can go, okay?"

Sam's eyes were so bright, so hopeful. Cas nodded, zoning in on the fries and picking one up. But his thoughts circled like a maelstrom around the taste of Dean's mouth, his skin—remembered from a hundred encounters that had been erased. He kept glancing out the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of Dean while he ate as instructed.

The Impala was visible, but Dean was not.

\---------------------------

_July 2011, Then_

  
"Whatta ya got, Bobby?"

Dean's phone was on speaker, though Cas could've heard just as well had it been pressed to his ear. Cas appreciated these little courtesies.

"Well..." Bobby paused, sighing. "Looks like what went down in Conway weren't no isolated incident. Rage zombies've popped up in Portland, Maine and Salt Lake City, and that's just the US. I got word this afternoon Hong Kong's gone under, and sounds like the French Riviera ain't gonna be popular this summer."

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, brow furrowed and rigid. "We sure it's Croatoan, Bobby?"

"Yup."

Dean cursed, clenching the phone. "I thought we took care of that when we took out Pestilence," he snarled, fixing his glare on Cas. It was accusatory. And while Dean knew Cas wasn't responsible, he was angry and frightened right now, and needed a physical target to pin it on.

Cas shook his head, pulling Pestilence's ring from his breast pocket. "Pestilence is gone. We did 'off' him, as you'd say. But he must have found a way to distribute the virus—a way we hadn't anticipated. Are there any common factors in these outbreaks, Bobby? Some notable carrier? Demonic omens?"

After a couple tense minutes, the sound of Bobby clicking away at his computer stopped, and the old man hummed. "Well...it ain't much, but looks like in all these places, area hospitals've been using this new flu shot put out by Niveus. It's shaky, but it's all I got. Can't figure nothing else connecting 'em all."

Cas frowned, eyes sliding to the phone. "Perhaps we should track their other shipments. It's not, as I understand it, 'flu season.' It may be that Niveus was Pestilence's agent in this pandemic."

"Yeah," Bobby said, sounding relieved. "I'll look into 'em. Be a lot easier if Sam'd answer his damn phone these days," he grumbled, and, swiftly realizing his mistake, rushed on, "I'll have to call in a favor from an old, uh, acquaintance. It'll cost, but if anyone can get ahold of that intel, it'll be that paranoid bastard, Devereaux."

Dean nodded, vehemently ignoring any reference to Sam. "Okay. Let us know when you got anything. We'll be here. Waiting."

They said their goodbyes, and Dean settled back with a sigh, head falling over the back of the bucket seat. For a long moment, he just stayed there, eyes squeezed shut. Cas regarded him, tracing his features, the raised ridge of his nose, the dark line of his lashes against his cheeks, the bow of his lips...

Dean sighed again, and sat up. "Well, no point sitting here all night. Let's go." He swung his door open, sliding out. Cas heaved a sigh and followed him to the roadside bar.

Inside, it was loud. Loud and crowded.

The majority of the establishment's patrons were seated around a small stage occupied by a rather intoxicated young man wailing unintelligible words into one of two microphones, lyrics scrolling up a projector screen behind him.

Dean made a face at the spectacle, muttering something about karaoke, and continued on his way to the bar. Dubious about the entire scene, Cas hesitated a moment before slinking after him.

The bartender was a pretty young woman, with wavy black hair messily caught up in a knot at the back of her head, as if she'd had no time to do anything with it after rolling out of bed. She flashed a brilliant smile, sliding in front of them.

"What can I get you boys?"

Dean leaned on his elbows, propping one boot on the foot-rail, and matched her smile. Sighing, Cas settled onto the empty stool beside him and hoped he'd get a chance to order for himself this time. All too often, bartenders would forget he was there, and Dean would end up getting him a beer without asking. He didn't particularly care for beer. A good whiskey sour, or something ridiculous and sweet, like a zombie or a hurricane— _Girly drinks_ , Dean always sneered—were his preference.

"Whiskey, double," Dean purred, voice settling into that flirtatious lower register that suggested the night would be longer than anticipated. Mood darkening, Cas scowled down at the polished bar top between water-stained paper coasters and sticky spills. It was going to be another night 'sexiled' to the Impala's hood, where he would sit, invisibly, until Dean saw the girl off in a cab.

"You look like you could use a vacation."

Castiel jerked upright. Beside him, a young woman regarded him with something like amusement, her bottle-green eyes dancing with flecks of gold-brown and mischief.

"Sorry, didn't mean to startle you," she grinned, her voice more playful than apologetic.

"No, it—it's fine. I was distracted," he said, feeling his face warm.

Her grin widened, and Cas noted that it was very straight and very white against her full, unpainted lips. It lacked the cocky, knowing quality he associated with Dean and the women he picked up. It held something genuinely pleased—something that reminded him of the times he surprised a laugh out of Dean and his entire face lit up, eyes crinkling.

"No worries. I can't get you a vacation, but maybe a drink would suffice?" she asked, her expression hopeful.

Cas found himself mirroring her grin. "I would be pleased to purchase you an alcoholic beverage..." He glanced at the bartender and Dean, still too busy with one another to notice him. "But, ah, it seems our server is occupied..."

The woman laughed, and it wasn't tinkling and childish as he'd come to expect from single women interested in sex. She laughed loud and unselfconsciously, and he found it a very pleasant sound.

She winked conspiratorially, fingers coming to rest on his arm. "Don't worry, I have a secret weapon."

With that, she pouted her lips and leaned forward, propping her elbows on the bar and folding her forearms together. She got up on her toes, pressing her breasts into the neat cage her arms had created. Several of the neighboring patrons noticed and began to surreptitiously check her out. Her face dropped into a mask of innocence, looking a little lost, and Cas felt the urge to offer her assistance. After a moment of contemplation, he realized that must be the point of this exercise, as it turned out there was a second bartender—an attractive blond man, who abandoned the group he'd been chatting with to come over.

It was déjà vu as the bartender began to flirt with her, not even glancing his way.

"I'll have a sex on the beach, please, and, um," she turned to Cas, awaiting his input.

Blinking, it took him a moment to realize she wasn't ignoring him as Dean was. Face softening, he couldn't help feeling relieved—pleased even—that she wasn't using him as a distraction between flirtations. "A zombie, please."

The blond grinned, winking at Cas as he mixed the cocktails. Once he'd placed the drinks before them and collected their money, the woman stuck her hand out. "Daphne."

Cas regarded it for a moment before taking it. "Castiel."

"Castiel," she took a moment to roll the name on her tongue. "Are you an angel?"

Choking on a sip of his zombie, Cas spluttered. "What?"

Daphne laughed again, that free, singing laugh. "Sorry, that sounded like a bad pick up line. No, I was a religious studies major. The suffix 'el' means 'God,' so most named angels in Abrahamic literature have a name ending in 'el.' Like Michael, or Gabriel," she said, putting a heavy emphasis on the final syllable in both names. "It's an unusual name, 'Castiel.' Did you come from a religious family?"

He relaxed, relieved that she didn't suspect him of being a real angel. "Ah...yes. You could say that. However, the workings of Heaven are...not particularly in line with my own interests," he carefully replied.

Daphne nodded ruefully. "Families and their religions can be overbearing. I'm pretty skeptical, myself. I guess it'd take a real sign to get me to believe." She chuckled, looking up at him through long eyelashes.

For a long moment they simply regarded one another.

"Hey Cas, here," Dean interrupted, shoving an El Sol in front of him.

Blinking, Cas drew back, staring first at the beer, then at Dean. The pretty female bartender had departed to serve another customer. From the looks she kept shooting Dean's way, she would be back soon, though.

"That's all right, Dean," Cas said, motioning to his zombie, "Daphne and I have procured drinks already."

Dean's eyes widened, flicking dumbstruck between Cas and Daphne. "Oh," he mumbled. If Cas hadn't known better, he might've thought it was hurt that flickered across Dean's face.

Then Dean cleared his throat and pasted on that fake smile he reserved for witnesses and victims. "I'm Dean. Cas here and me're on a road trip. Taking in the majesty of the Rockies. Last big hurrah with my best friend before he ties the knot." Dean slapped him hard on the back in what Cas assumed was supposed to be some sort of jovial, masculine display of affection, but which felt excessively aggressive.

Daphne's eyes widened, surprised and perhaps a little crestfallen. "Oh! You're getting married?"

Cas glared hard at Dean. "No," he ground out, "Dean is joking. I am not romantically, nor sexually, involved with anyone, male, female, or otherwise. Dean likes to joke. He is not always funny."

Looking back and forth between them, Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Well, if you're sure..."

"I have never experienced an interest in any person great enough to propose marriage," Cas asserted, shooting Dean a black look.

Dean returned it with interest before recalling Daphne's presence and forcing his most charming smile. "Yeah, I'm just messing with him. Can't take a joke at all." He punctuated it with a wink.

Daphne giggled into her palm, and the girlish gesture made Cas frown, reviewing her previous behavior. The review did not please him.

Just as he opened his mouth to say something—what, he didn't know—the terrible singing ended, and a woman stepped forward to retrieve the microphone.

"All right! That was 'Paralyzer,' à la our good friend Mike. Give him a hand! Up next we've got Daphne, singing... 'Gravity!' Daphne! Daphne, come on up!"

A gaggle of women at the front of the stage cheered raucously, and beside him, Daphne turned bright red, laughing and covering her face with her hands.

"Oh my god! I can't believe they signed me up! I'm gonna kill them!"

"Those are your friends?" Cas asked.

Her friends and the emcee began to chant her name as the first notes of the song played over the speakers, and a couple of the women got up and started pushing their way toward them.

She nodded, lowering her hands.

Dean laughed, reaching around Cas to clap a hand on her shoulder. "Better get up there before they drag you!"

Groaning, Daphne grabbed her drink, downed it in two gulps, and turned to Cas. "Wish me luck!"

The first couple lines had already passed by the time she got on stage, but she caught up pretty quickly, flipping her friends a middle finger. "You hold me without touch, you keep me without chains..."

"Hey," Dean hissed, elbowing him, "What the hell're you doing?!"

Cas tilted his head, confused.

Dean rolled his eyes. "What're you doing with the chick, Cas? She thinks you're hitting on her."

Cas studied Dean, wondering what social nuance he was missing this time. "I believe that was indeed what we were doing. I purchased a drink for her. Unless I'm mistaken, these sorts of overtures are intended to intoxicate a potential partner to help them become comfortable enough to engage in sexual activities."

Dean's glower magnified. "You're trying to pick up chicks in a friggin' bar? The hell is wrong with you?"

"Aren't you always telling me I need to get laid?" he shot back. "I would think you'd be pleased."

"Yeah, but—this's a backwater bar in the friggin' boonies, and you're just gonna pick up some—some stranger for a one night stand?"

All the frustration, jealousy, and anger Cas had been swallowing for the past several months boiled over, up his throat and into his head. Suddenly his patience was exhausted, and he found himself too furious with Dean's careless disregard to stop himself. "And who else would I engage in any sort of relationship—no matter how long-lived or emotionally satisfying, Dean? You've made it clear that you aren't interested in anyone in a male body, and I'm afraid that I find anyone else less than appealing."

Dean gaped at him, mouth frozen in an 'o' of terror.

Daphne's voice filled the silence that followed. "I live here on my knees, as I try to make you see that you're everything I think I need, here on the ground..."

' _How appropriate_ ,' Cas thought for one wild moment before the enormity of what he'd just said hit him.

Swallowing, he stood, head swimming, horrified at the way he'd just laid his heart bare before Dean Winchester. He opened his mouth to apologize, to excuse himself, but found his throat dry and his tongue a stone in his mouth.

He snapped it shut, and without waiting to find out what Dean might manage to say once he'd found his words, he fled.

\---------------------------

_November 2009, Now_

  
When they left the diner, Cas was more or less walking on his own, and Dean was in the Impala with a newspaper spread across the steering wheel.

Cas nearly collapsed in relief at the sight of him, nerves humming with an aggressive yearning that hadn't faded along with his high.

He let Sam tuck him into the back, brushing hair out of his face and giving him a soft, sympathetic smile. Cas settled, Sam slid into the passenger seat, depositing the doggy bag on the seat beside Dean.

"Local casino seems to be experiencing a few problems," Dean sniffed, not looking up.

"So?"

Dean shrugged, corners of his mouth turning down. "So nothing. Just ten people dead, still gripping their slot arms, and another three drunk themselves to death at the bar. And there's the man who threw himself onto the track after his dog lost the race, and proceeded to get his throat ripped out when he tried to do the same to the poor mutt."

That got Sam's attention. "Wait, what?"

"Oh, and that's not all. Rash of bank robberies, more overdoses in the last two days than in the last month, and it seems a South Charleston neonatal nurse proceeded to abduct and suffocate a newborn baby last night. But," he held up one finger, pausing dramatically, "she didn't smother it under a pillow or something, she apparently tried to shove it into her uterus." In the rearview, his mouth was curved into something sardonic and unpleasant.

"What?" Sam repeated, snatching the newspaper. "'The body of Joanne Connors, age 36, was found mutilated yesterday evening, with the corpse of an infant in the hospital's care suffocated in her abdomen. Though still unofficial, police sources have indicated that the incident may be related to a recent diagnosis of infertility, following eight years of unsuccessful attempts at conception for Connors and her husband.' Holy crap."

"I don't know," Dean said, raising his eyebrows, "Sounds like our kinda thing, don't it, Sammy?"

Battling an increasingly dry tongue as the Oxy wore off, Cas pushed himself upright. "Aren't we already on the scent of apocalypse-level 'our kinda thing?'"

Dean turned, throwing his arm over the back of the seat, and Cas's dry mouth increased ten-fold as a bolt of naked, unadulterated want shot through him. Digging his fingernails into his palm, Cas tried to force it back.

"Done with the day's trip already?"

Meeting Dean's gaze with as much acid as he could muster, Cas mocked a grin. "It's getting gone almost as fast as one of your one night stands."

Dean spluttered, mouth opening twice before he awkwardly spat out, "You're a—one night...stand."

"So, yeah," Sam interrupted loudly. "Looks like whatever's happening here is a little too big for us to just ignore."

Dean, fuming, glared daggers at Cas until Sam continued, "Maybe we should stick around for a few days, see if we can get whatever this is resolved before we head down to Jamestown. Cas?"

Sam turned and Dean begrudgingly followed suit, faces expectant. Cas looked between them a minute before throwing his hands in the air.

"Yeah, sure, sounds good. Hell, I can even contribute—hang out with the future alcohol poisoning cases. See what they can give us."

"Is that really...wise?" Sam asked diplomatically.

"Unless you think I can pass as FBI with you big boys," he replied, batting his eyes.

Dean scoffed before he could stop himself and Cas blushed, turning away a moment too slowly, and Dean coughed, schooling his features into something defiant. It hurt more than it should have. He ducked his head, searching his jacket pocket for the bottle he'd stashed inside.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. So shut the fuck up and let me do what I can," he muttered.

He could feel Sam's concerned gaze on him as he swallowed a couple Xanax, but he didn't dare look at either of them until the pills had worked their magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from _(II) The Dirt Won't Keep Your Secrets_ by The Venetia Fair.
> 
>  ~~Next chapter due by beginning of May. No regular update schedule, however. Update: Due to some personal stuff, the next chapter is going to be posted later than expected. It's still in editing, so it won't be too late, just later.~~ I am a dirty fucking liar, but in my defense, at the time I said that I was in a... _really_ bad place. I've revamped and am working on a new the next chapter presently. I will _actually_ give you guys something soon.


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